June

O queenly month of indolent repose!

I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,

As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom

I nestle like a drowsy child and doze

The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws

The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom

And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom

Before thy listless feet. The lily blows

A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;

And wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear,

Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;

While faint and far away, yet pure and clear,

A voice calls out of alien lands of shade —:

All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!